


Key to the Cage

by sewn



Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Coping With Pain, Druid Apprentice Mareth, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Scars, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and Healthy Ones, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: Mareth helps Allanon deal with the pain caused by the druid runes.(Two ficlets: one lighter & gen, one darker with a hint of one-sided sexual attraction.)
Relationships: Allanon & Mareth (Shannara), Allanon/Mareth (Shannara)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. sugar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt I got from [swingrlm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingrlm) about Mareth soothing the pain caused by Allanon's runes. I ended up with two versions: the first chapter is gen and lighter; the second is a bit harsher and has implied sexual content (but no reciprocal incest). Once again set in an AU-ish future where Allanon lives and takes Mareth as an apprentice.

Mareth can't stop staring at the runes.

Her father is cleaning himself up with a washcloth, efficient as always, by the fire, his back to hers. She rarely sees him like this, and even after their time together, the runes remain a mystery to her. She had seen drawings of them, but never real ones before she found him—she keeps touching her own fresh scar on the back of her neck, feeling the shape, trying to imagine it. It is almost healed now; it still aches a little if she presses down on it, but it's a sweet sensation, a good reminder.

Now she finds herself staring at Allanon's back, where the remaining runes stand out even in the faint light. There are so _many_.

His muscles work as he wrings the washcloth dry, hangs it to dry by the fire. She averts her eyes quickly when he turns around, searching for his shirt.

"Can you tell me about the runes?" She blurts it out before he can get dressed.

He looks up at her, quizzical.

"Your - our - runes." She brushes her own neck. "I've only ever seen pictures before."

"What do you want to know?" He looks a little surprised, but walks closer.

"I'd just like to see them. If you don't mind," she adds. "Maybe..." She looks at the ground in front of her, and he gets it, though he seems a little uncomfortable as he sits by her feet, cross-legged.

She gazes down, eyes following the curve of one scar. "Like this one..." She hovers her fingers above it. She feels silly asking, almost decides against it, but of course he reads her mind. _Can I touch them?_

"Go ahead," Allanon says after a moment, voice low.

He seems to steel himself for her touch. When she lays her fingers on the rune, he flinches a little. It is decidedly weird, touching him for the first time; she hadn't thought of how intimate this would be. She feels a little awkward, but runs her fingertip slowly along the pale, raised skin.

"What's this one?" she whispers. The moment feels fragile, she doesn't want to disturb it.

"Protection." He says it from between gritted teeth, like it hurts, and she pulls her hand back. Maybe it does.

"I'm sorry, did I -"

"It's nothing," he says quickly but tightly. "Just a reaction."

He sounds pained but doesn't get up, so Mareth stays still too, holding her breath.

"Magic is a cage," he finally says. "Druids are not meant to form relationships, and the runes remind us of that."

So every time someone touches him—Mareth balls her hands into fists out of sudden frustration. Is this why he wears such heavy clothes?

"You will get used to it." His voice is steady, gruff as usual, but she thinks she can see him shiver, he must feel her flaring emotions.

"That's not what I -" Her heart aches. He's been a druid for _so long_. She tries to imagine it; magic scares her, still, but not because it hurts—it's the opposite: it feels good, so good she sometimes feels like she wants to dive into it, give in. It seems unfair that he experiences it so differently.

"Can I try something?"

He doesn't say no, so Mareth touches him again, as gently as she can, concentrating. She wonders if she can use her magic like this, too, but it must work: he makes a sound, like he's surprised but not hurt.

"You shouldn't waste your power," he says weakly.

"Shh." She rubs at the join of his neck and shoulder with her thumb, then runs her fingers slowly up and down between his shoulder blades. It's what her mother used to do, she suddenly remembers, when she was a little kid and got anxious about something. Before she found out—Mareth swallows, not wanting to think about it, but it's impossible. Allanon must catch that thought, because he tenses again, and she almost lets go.

Just when she's about to pull back, he relaxes into her touch, letting out a slow breath. She can _feel_ him close his eyes even though she doesn't see his face, some of the lines on his face smoothed away.

He's right that her power is limited; she can't often heal so much as lessen the pain, and not for long. It seems to be enough, though, for him, and she keeps up the little motions, mindless patterns, scratching lightly. She can feel some of the tension melt away from him under her other hand which she rests on his shoulder. She follows the patterns of the scars down his spine, touches each one, then up again so she can press her thumbs under his shoulder blades.

She hesitates a little, but she can sense the calm in him, like still water, and she leans forward to reach more of him; he doesn't seem to mind when she places her palm on his forearm and slides it up slowly. His small scars here are not runes, but she touches them too.

Finally, Mareth feels her power waning. She's loath to let go, but pulls back an inch.

They are both quiet for a while. She is all warmed up inside by the magic, pleasantly heated. She hopes he senses it.

"Thank -"

"Is it any -"

They both speak at once, halt awkwardly. Mareth shakes her head a little, smiles, knowing he can feel it.


	2. spice

It's foolish to think he could have hidden it from Mareth.

Even though he is the one who can read minds, it sometimes feels like she's the one who sees right through him, especially in close quarters, like now. He can't help but recoil from her touch when she casually puts her hand on his back, and she demands an instant explanation, one that clearly doesn't satisfy her. He doesn't blame her: he's never had to describe the pain of carrying the druid runes. She has yet to experience it, the all-encompassing sensation.

"So... sometimes the magic just hurts?" She looks alert. "And there's nothing to it but wait?"

The question is absurd, he cannot remember a time he didn't live with the ache, though it comes and goes, sometimes a mere dull insistence at the back of his mind.

"I have grown used to it. It's simply harder to ignore at times. I apologize, but I won't be of use for a day or two."

This wasn't an issue when he traveled alone, but now he has someone he has to explain himself to.

Mareth regards him silently for a moment, then says, "We have to keep moving. Take your shirt off. Lie down."

He doesn't connect the dots immediately and almost protests.

"Come on." She instructs him with a thought, and now he obeys, relieved by anything that distracts from the pain.

When he's settled on the bed, she follows him to straddle his back. The rough fabric of her clothes rubs his flanks as she settles better. Reminiscent of their sparring, perhaps, but unlike in a fight, she runs her palm up his arm, takes his wrist, guiding him to the position she wants.

Her hands gone, his focus pinpoints to his runes again; her closeness makes them pulse, supposedly to protect him, warn him, but in truth to cage him in—

The wet heat on his skin is unexpected, but her weight keeps his hips from jumping. She licks up his spine, stops to rub at a scar. The soft touch makes the pain flare up and without thinking he struggles to get her off.

"Stay." She pushes him down, hand on the back of his neck.

It still hurts, but it feels good to obey the command, and he strains to stay down as she kisses his shoulder and neck. The magic is like something struggling out from under his skin, and he wonders if she feels it, if it burns her lips—

"Focus." Whispered into his ear, fingers in his hair, pulling his head back. The quick pain in his scalp shakes him out of the thought. She mouths at the back of his neck again, not relaxing her grip. Her knees press against his sides, he feels the shape and weight of her breasts fleetingly; even that touch is enough to remind him of the marks of magic on his body—

She bites him, hard enough that it makes him shiver, a sweet little sting in his shoulder. She sinks her teeth into his earlobe next, then the hinge of his jaw, and her fingernails dig into his arms, each sensation a moment of freedom from the magic's ache. He can almost forget she's so small, she feels like she could cover all of him, as she runs her nails up and down and her breathing burns his skin.

He feels her sit up so she can spread her hands on his back, almost like a massage, but she doesn't move except to dig her fingertips into his skin.

"You know I've been practising," she says lightly, though breathing deep. He catches her thoughts, the struggle for control over her—

Druid fire. He bites his teeth hard together to keep from crying out. It's just a taste, but it bursts out of her fingertips against his skin, reaches so deep it shakes his bones.

He wants to say something. That this is a weapon, not meant for play. That she doesn't know what she's doing. But—

"Don't think." She taps his neck on the pulse point, keeps her other hand on his back. Like a warning, no, a promise. _Feel._

His mind keeps drifting to the insistent _wrongness_ his body is signaling to him, but every time it threatens to take over, she sends a pulse of burning-hot force into him; at this proximity, in a fight, she might take him out for good, but she holds back, lets it out in sparks.

This pain should be too much, he knows, but somehow it is a relief, a respite from the other hurting in his body. There's nothing but her firm grip holding him down by the shoulder, her mouth soothing a spot only to burn it with her touch again, ice and fire at once. It's lulling, an unceasing wave, and every time the effect of her touch fades, his body yearns for more of her fire.

 _How much more_ , she wonders, dragging her thumb up his spine.

"All of it," he whispers.

When he comes to, it's with a slow dawning of awareness. He's not pinned down anymore, only a light touch on his elbow that recedes as he opens his eyes.

Mareth is lying down next to him and he now sees her glowing face, her hazy eyes. She licks sweat from her upper lip. The fire is an exertion on a druid's body, and he can feel the tiredness in her muscles, the warmth, the _pleasure_.

"Do you mind?" She looks him in the eye as if to challenge him.

He couldn't stop her, anyway, from working her hand between her legs, and he can't pretend he's scandalized. If they both want this, for whatever reason, why not—

He closes his eyes as she opens her mouth, merely listening, letting his mind linger on the places she touched in him, feeling nothing at all.


End file.
